But Not Forgotten – A Gripping Murder Mystery
A serialised novel
“I think I’m your sister. Our father is missing.”
After receiving a call from the sister he didn’t know existed, private investigator Barty Symonds travels to a village in the beautiful New Forest to find the father who abandoned him years ago.
Then someone dies, and all eyes in the tight-knit community turn to the newcomer, the outsider, and Barty finds himself not only in the role of investigator…
But prime suspect.
14
Imran seated them in the corner, out of the way. Noting the Imranio’s logo on the menu, which matched the one on Imran’s top, Barty inquired after the name’s origin. The restauranteur was perhaps used to answering this question. If so, he seemed not to have tired of telling the story, and his eyes sparkled as he spoke.
“I left Pakistan – with my parents and siblings – when I was eight and moved to England when I was fourteen. Before settling here, we had stints in several countries across Europe. I fell in love with the food in Italy and promised myself I would one day own an Italian restaurant. Near enough thirty years later, I moved to Pivert with my wife and lovely Mia and bought this place.” He gestured at the four walls, beaming with parental pride. “I wanted to call it Imran’s. Mia couldn’t have been much older than Flo is now, but, like Flo, she was smart. She told me, ‘You can’t escape people’s preconceptions, Dad.’ I’m not sure I knew the word preconceptions, but she did. ‘If you call this place Imran’s, they’ll expect Pakistani cuisine. No matter how many pictures of pizzas you put in the window, people seeking a pizzeria will walk by.’” Imran shrugged. “I was unconvinced, but my daughter’s savvy. She’s smarter than me now, and she was smarter than me then. So when she said I should call this place Pivert Pizza or Mario’s, I knew to listen, you see?”
Barty nodded.
“As I was attached to the idea of Imran’s, I decided to compromise. A blend of my name and Mario’s. Thus, Imranio’s was born. I had the logo designed and the menus printed, and I showed them to Mia. Know what she said?”
“Something disobliging?”
Imran clapped his big hands and chortled. “Already, you are getting to know my Mia. And to know a woman is to love her, don’t you think?”
Barty thought it better not to comment.
“She said, ‘You’re an idiot, Dad’. And I kissed her head and told her it would be fine. And here we are, fifteen years later, right as rain.”
“It’s the best restaurant within a hundred miles of Pivert,” said Florence.
“You’re a sweet girl,” said Imran. His eyes creased with worry as he looked at the child. “I’ll send Mia to take your order. Please know, whatever is going on with Vincent, you can talk to me anytime.”
The sombre seriousness of this comment contrasted with how Imran had so far acted. The look in Florence’s eyes said she was as surprised by the pivot as Barty.
“Thank you.” Her words were little more than a whisper.
Imran squeezed her shoulder and disappeared. There were tears in Florence’s eyes as he returned to the kitchen.
“Want to talk about it?” Barty asked. “About Dad, I mean.”
Florence shook her head. “Not right now, if that’s okay?”
It was. Seeing the tears in Florence’s eyes made anger flare within Barty. The kind of anger he had not felt towards his father in many years. How could anyone walk away from this bright, kind child? It was beyond Barty’s comprehension. He would gladly shelve talk of his father for the next few years.
Running a finger down the menu, Florence said, “I think I’ll have a lemonade.”
“Sounds good. I’ll join you.” He turned his attention to the pizza and pasta selection. “What’s good to eat?”
Flo’s finger moved from the drinks to the pizzas, pausing over an image.
“My fave is the Tuna Tornado.”
Barty glanced at the menu. “Oh, no.”
“What is it?”
“After the Stephen King thing, I got to thinking we were in sync. Two peas in a pod. But tuna?”
Giggling, Florence said, “You don’t like tuna?”
“I love tuna. Tuna is great… on a potato. In a sandwich. I can put up with tuna steak, and I adore tuna lasagne, but on a pizza? That should be illegal.”
“You’re wrong.” Florence was still smiling her radiant smile. “Tuna on pizza is great.”
Barty pulled a face. This made Florence laugh, but only for a split second before something dragged the happiness from her features.
“What’s wrong?”
“Dad doesn’t like tuna either,” said Florence, once again fighting the urge to cry. “That face, the one you just made, that’s exactly how he looked whenever we came here, and we…” Florence tailed off. After a sob, she said in a barely audible voice, “Mum loved the tuna tornado.”
As the tears began to trickle once more, Barty – who had difficult conversations with upset and often traumatised people for a living – found himself unsure what to say. This was an unusual experience and led to him feeling impotent. Why was he here if not to help?
“Your mum,” he said at last, still searching for the right words as he spoke. “She’s—”
“She died,” Florence cut in. “Hit and run a year ago.”
“Flo, I’m so sorry.”
The flow of tears increased, and as Florence put a hand to her face to hide her eyes, Barty pushed back his chair, intending to come around the table to offer her comfort.
“No.” Florence shook her head and sniffed, forcing her hand from her face. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” Another sniff, and she dried her eyes with a napkin. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”
Before Florence could say anything further, Barty’s future bride, Mia, appeared at their table. She had come with a notepad and a professional expression. Upon seeing Florence’s wet cheeks, the former went into her pocket, and the latter dropped from her face.
“Little Bee, it’s okay.” She dropped to her haunches, lay a hand on Florence’s arm and nodded towards Barty. “Is this one upsetting you? Say the word, and I’ll deal with him. I’ve a vat of boiling oil out back that’d do the trick.”
Florence laughed through her tears.
“That’s the second threat of serious harm I’ve had today,” said Barty. “I’m starting to understand what people mean when they talk about the community spirit of villages. It’s much darker than I’d imagined.”
More laughter from Florence, who said to Mia, “Harriet threatened to cut off his testicles if he attacked us.”
Mia met Barty’s eye. “What a pity that would be.”
Her gaze lingered momentarily, then pulled away as Barty said, “That was when we first met. I think I’m winning her over.”
“That’d be some trick. No one else has.” Mia squeezed Florence’s arm. “You okay, Bee?”
“Yeah,” said Florence. “It’s not Barty who upset me, anyway.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Even if it was, you couldn’t hurt him.”
“Why not?”
“Because then he wouldn’t buy me lunch.”
They all laughed at that, and Mia took their orders.
“I’ll have that out for you soon,” she said. “You need anything in the meantime, just shout, okay?”
She directed this comment at Florence, who nodded. Mia squeezed the girl’s arm again and departed. Barty turned his head and watched her go. When he returned his attention to his sister, he found a wry smile on her face, which was at odds with the tears on her cheeks.
“What?” He hoped he didn’t sound defensive.
“You fancy her.” Florence’s grin spread as she spoke.
“Behave. We’ve only just met.”
Florence rolled her eyes, “As if that stops most men.”
“Are you sure you’re only twelve? I’m wondering if a witch trapped a much older woman in a child’s body?”
Florence giggled. He thought that would be the end of it.
Instead, she said, “Bet you were thinking about kissing her, watching her leave.”
“You’d lose that bet.”
It was clear from Florence’s expression that she did not believe him. In fact, it was the truth. As attractive as Barty found Mia (very), his affectionate smile had more to do with his appreciation of what she had done for his sister. Her intervention had brought Florence back from the brink of despair, returning a smile to her face. And it was more than this. Mia, Harriet, Imran – these people represented a support network that not only wanted to cheer Florence up but was happy to threaten actual bodily harm to anyone they feared might compound her already considerable suffering. Barty remembered his mother’s loneliness and isolation after his father had left. These were feelings that Barty alone could not alleviate. How different might her situation have been if she could walk next door or to the local restaurant and find people who cared and wanted to help? There was none of that, and Barty returned to what his grandmother had said.
City air shortens tempers.
Barty would soon have to return to the city. Already, this was a prospect he was not looking forward to. At least he knew he would be leaving Florence in the company of people who loved her.
“I’m just wondering,” said Florence, dragging Barty from his thoughts.
“Wondering what?”
Florence nodded towards the kitchen.
“Do you think Mia will ask me to be chief bridesmaid at your wedding?”
Barty threw a napkin across the table and revelled in his little sister’s laughter.
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